Abstract Sadness
by pestilent.defiler
Summary: Tannis copes with the news of Roland's death and the reality of her ever-dwindling sanity. Written in response to BitterRenegade's writing challenge, week 1. Oneshot.


Journal of Dr. Patricia Tannis, Pandora, Date Unknown

No one really expects me to feel much of anything anymore, but sometimes they're wrong. It's true that much of my time is spent in bizarre fantasy now, but I have moments of clarity. I dread them, to be honest. Ever since I took this job and came to this backward planet, the steady decline of my sanity has been a fact of my life. At first I was horrified, but now I view it like an old friend, a comforting escape from my existence.

My work is rarely affected in any significant way. It turns out that madness is not a barrier to science, though given my predecessors in this field that should come as no surprise. I find great inspiration in my delusions and always keep notes. At least that part of my training hasn't left me. When the fog lifts and I can see with clear eyes again, I can work. My work is my real life, what I always come back to. If I ever lose it…perhaps I won't even notice by that point.

Before Dahl, I was highly regarded in my field. I had friends, admirers. Promising students. I vaguely remember a time when I enjoyed the company of other people. That memory seems like a dream now, or a nightmare- the kind that wakes me up with numb horror and cold sweats. It is so distant from my current reality it seems like a cruel joke.

Did I have a romantic partner? It feels like I did. I can't even begin to guess at gender or even the kind of person I would want to be with. It's a feeling that nags at me sometimes, though. I fancied myself to have a brief liaison with my ECHO recorder a few years ago, which leads me to conclude that I miss that type of contact. No matter. I will forget soon enough.

Before the four vault hunters came in response to my offworld communiqué, I had my studies to occupy much of my time. The creeping madness was slower back then, and I made many great strides in beginning to understand the strange Eridians and their culture. With no small amount of pride I remember how I discovered the locations of the vault pieces. I do wish I had known what would happen as a result of those discoveries, but in all honesty I doubt that anything could stop my lust for knowledge.

I do wish Hyperion hadn't killed my handsome ceiling chair, though.

One of the new vault hunters came to me today, the young one with the interesting name. Gear? Cog? Lever? No. Gauge. That's it. She built a most splendid robot, much better than the companion I attempted to construct for myself out of spare parts from the junkyard at Tartarus Station. I've never been much of an engineer. Archeology is a puzzle whose pieces I can master.

But what about Gauge? She wanted something, what was it? Oh yes. Terrible news, in fact. It seems that Handsome Jack has killed Roland, the leader. I always liked him. Even as my phobias and delusions began to overtake me, he was always kind. I recognized a drive in him that I once possessed myself. Had he chosen a different career path, he would have made me a wonderful student. It would have been useful to have interns with guns.

The Siren has been taken as well, the first one. The one without proper respect for scientific enquiry. My acquisition of her panties was purely in the interest of scientific research. It was simply coincidence that my own were in the wash and I absentmindedly donned hers. Note to self: Patty, you still look great in a thong, no matter what the stapler says. She's just catty and jealous.

But I digress. I find myself in one of my clear moments (writing seems to focus my thoughts most efficaciously) now, and I am surprised and somewhat gratified to be experiencing sadness at Roland's murder. Anger, it seems, is also within my reach! A most fascinating development. Perhaps there is a correlation between extreme emotion and mental focus? I must conduct a series of experiments on myself, perhaps starting as soon as that shrew of a stapler goes to sleep. I cannot concentrate with her constant criticisms.

I shall sit with a cup of cold cocoa and listen to my torture recordings again to put myself in the proper frame of mind. It will be unpleasant, but without my work I am lost.


End file.
